


Before the Dawn

by missmichellebelle



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, M/M, Post-Canon, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 20:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2163513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey holds him tighter, and Ian wonders how he can feel like he’s breaking apart into a thousand pieces while being held together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to disclaim this by saying that I do not suffer from bipolar disorder, and therefore can not write about it more accurately than what I can gather from internet research. However, I have lived with depression for many years, and so I used those experiences, because from what my research taught me, low mood episodes for those suffering with bipolar disorder are on par with depressive episodes.
> 
> That being said, mental illness affects everyone differently. I wrote about the affects I am personally familiar with, and even then, it's been a long time since mine has gone untreated. I did the best I could, but it's not exactly the easiest thing to write about. Especially since we have yet to see how Ian's depressive episodes affect him in canon—this is really me just taking a stab in the dark.
> 
> Please be aware that this fic deals with the internal workings/thoughts/etc. of someone undergoing a depressive mood episode. If that could in anyway trigger your own mood episode, please do not read this.
> 
> I'm sorry if you suffer from bipolar disorder and this is nothing like what you've experienced. <3 Again, I did my best, and I wrote what I knew.

Ian feels trapped.

His body is heavy, and cold, and hostile, a cage that is too small and suffocating, like it’s slowly compressing him until nothing is left. He already feels like there isn’t much of him anywhere, like the pressure is winning. Like he’s letting it, because he doesn’t know how to fight it. Because, most of the time, he can’t remember _how_ to fight it.

He calls for help, _screams_ for it, thrashes and claws and tries to rip his way out. But the sounds don’t reach his mouth, and his limbs don’t listen to him anymore. He might as well be living in a corpse. It makes him so tired, and so he sleeps and sleeps and waits for it to make things better, but it doesn’t seem to work. When he wakes up, he’s still tired, and he’s still a prisoner inside his own body.

It’s weird to have awareness of the world around him—if awareness is even what it can be called. He can still hear, and see, and feel, but it’s… Different. The light is too bright, and the dark is too endless. Every sound comes through a hundred miles of water, but they’re too sharp, a high pitched frequency that goes at him like the needle of a tattoo gun—painful and continuous. It feels like people are screaming at him with words he doesn’t know. The hands that touch him offer no warmth or solace, or even familiarity. The touches are empty and meaningless, just like everything else.

Just like him.

He’s a husk, he realizes. Or he will be. Soon. The compression is winning, and he’s too tired to keep fighting it. How much longer can he hold on until the stones on his chest crush him completely?

If only he could see them, maybe he could move them. If only he could tell someone about them, maybe they could help him.

Why won’t anyone help him?

Maybe because he doesn’t deserve help. People in his life don’t help him. That’s why they all stand back and watch as he slowly and painfully is pressed into nothingness. They prod him with dead hands and yell at him, but they don’t help. They never help. He’s not worth enough to help. He’s not worth _anything_.

That’s what they think. Why help someone with no value?

Worthless, worthless, worthless. That’s all he’s ever been, all he’ll ever be. A worthless burden. He needs and asks for too much, and they’re all tired of helping him. Tired of pretending to care. Tired of making places in their lives for him when they don’t want him there in the first place.

 _They’re just pretending_ , the shadow inside of him hisses. It’s always there, but it doesn’t make Ian feel any less alone. _They’ve been pretending your whole life. None of them give a fuck about you_.

But—

_They were so happy when you left. So_ **_relieved_ ** _. That’s why no one came looking for you. That’s why no one realized anything was wrong. They never wanted to help you. They just wanted you gone._

No—

_Who would want you around? You’re worthless. All you are is another mouth to feed, another body to clothe. You’re an inconvenience to all of them. They’re tired of having to take care of you._

Stop—

_It would be so much easier for all of them if you just disappeared forever. That’s what they want. They want to be rid of you. They won’t even miss you, just like they didn’t miss you last time. No one ever misses you. There’s nothing to miss._

Ian’s body curls tightly in on itself, a defensive reaction against his own internal assault. Like maybe that will make it hurt less.

It doesn’t.

The comforter bunches around him, and he clings to it, wishing it would swallow him whole. He needs to hide. He needs to run. He needs to claw at his head and his chest until this monster gets _out_. But his arms and legs don’t listen, don’t work.

Even if they did. You can’t escape from something inside of you.

Fuck, it _hurts_. It hurts so bad it makes his eyes well up with tears and his throat thick, makes his body shudder and spasm as silent sobs shake up his spine. Every word bounces around what space is left inside of him, a razor-edged boomerang that is destroying him from the inside while he’s being pushed in from the outside.

Stop, stop, stop.

He just wants it to stop.

Would do anything for it to just stop.

Just stop.

Please just stop.

How does he make it _stop?_

Why won’t anyone make it _stop?_

Please, please.

Help.

There’s not enough air. Not enough room in his lungs to take it in. His throat is stuck up and he wants to press his hands against it, open it up with his fingers to let the air in, but his fists just ball in the blankets and his breathing turns ragged.

The air stings coming in, but he needs it.

There is sound, too loud and too distant at the same time, and the image before his eyes is blurred and moving. Touch to his face, to his hands. Yelling, screaming. Too much sound, too much light, not enough…

Not enough…

Ian doesn’t know. But it’s not enough.

*

It stops.

The pain has seared through him like acid, hollowing him out and making everything feel too big, too empty, too numb. There’s no pain.

There’s just nothing.

When Ian opens his eyes, Mickey is there, and Ian twists his face into the pillow.

 _Please don’t look at me_ , he thinks. _Please don’t hate me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please._

 _Please help me_.

He would reach for Mickey, if only he could.

*

It’s dark the next time Ian opens his eyes.

Too dark. The dark feels like an extension of all the deep, agonizing shadows within himself, and all he can think about is them drawing up and smothering him. Putting an end to his pointless existence.

Finally.

The numbness inside of him stings now, like a wound left untreated and smarting for attention.

Ian wishes for the numbness back.

The stones aren’t as heavy, but there’s a new weight, twisted over and around him. _Holding_ him. But it’s different. It’s arms, and legs, and a body.

It’s Mickey.

Like a ladder lowered into a pit, Ian suddenly grips Mickey’s forearm in his hand, relenting his hold on the blanket. It’s too much, but it feels like a tether, keeping Ian from the shadows that wait with eager glee to eat him up. Until there’s nothing.

Mickey’s body tenses, a hard line behind him, and he speaks. The words are garbled together, but softer than they have been.

Ian hears his name, and just grips Mickey more fiercely.

Mickey holds him tighter, and Ian wonders how he can feel like he’s breaking apart into a thousand pieces while being held together.

*

Ian wakes up and has to piss.

He has to piss more than he has in his _entire_ life.

His body twitches, a line of energy that zips from his toes to his ears, reminding him that he has things like a bladder, and a stomach, and fingers.

He feels sore, but not the sort of sore he’s used to—not the good kind of sore that comes from exercise, or sex. The kind of sore that comes from latency. The kind of sore that a body just _becomes_ because it’s not being used for anything else.

For a second, Ian is afraid that his legs won’t even work anymore.

The light streaming into Mickey’s room has a pale, pre-dawn glow, bleaching away every color but still letting Ian _see_. He’s holding Mickey’s arm—vaguely remembers when he grabbed it in the night—and is suddenly aware of everywhere Mickey’s body is touching his. He’s warm, _too_ warm, the way he always is but that Ian kind of likes. Every time he inhales, his chest presses into Ian’s back, a steady comfort that would be lulling if Ian didn’t have to use the bathroom _so fucking bad_.

Extracting himself takes time. He doesn’t want to wake Mickey up, and his body still isn’t cooperating at full capacity, but he manages. Rubbing his chest, he stumbles through the faint light to the bathroom. He doesn’t even realize he’s naked until his feet touch the tile.

When he’s done, he lets the water run as he stares in the mirror. He looks, and feels, like utter shit. He can’t remember the last time he showered, and by the way his body is revolting against him, he definitely can’t remember the last time he ate. He feels wrung out and _gross_ , aching and exhausted. It’s kind of like he just got the shit kicked out of him, and his assailant finally let up so he could recover.

Ian breathes deeply, and it feels like it thrums through every nook of his body.

He cups the running water in his hand and gulps down handful after handful—fuck, he’s _thirsty_. He’s hungry, too, but he doesn’t have the energy to make it further than Mickey’s bedroom door yet.

But soon.

He splashes the water on his face and neck, runs it through his hair, and feels a little better. Not as good as a warm shower, but a decent substitute when his legs are shaking like a newborn fawn’s.

Getting back into bed isn’t nearly as graceful as a procedure. Ian nearly collapses on it, body giving out on him, and the sudden weight and jostle makes Mickey shoot up, head thrashing in alarm as his body winds up for an attack.

When one doesn’t come, the tension floods out as quickly as it came, and it takes Mickey a few seconds longer for his gaze to land on Ian, eyes blinking slowly.

“Ian?” His voice is slurred with sleep, Ian’s name dragged out so that it seems longer than two syllables. Mickey yawns, fighting to keep his eyes open and on Ian. “What’s wrong? You okay?”

“I’m…” Ian halts, wondering what the truth is, before he reaches to find Mickey’s hand in the sheets and grips it. “I’m fine. Had to piss. Go back to sleep.”

Mickey nods a few times, seeming to accept the answer in his sleep-addled state, but then his attention snaps back to Ian, a little more alert, like he suddenly takes in what he’s seeing. Which is Ian, sitting up in bed and facing him, the blankets twisted up beside him but not over him.

“You okay?” Mickey asks again, more disbelief in his voice this time, like he’s not sure he believes what he’s seeing, and Ian reaches for him—feels relief in extending his arms and _touching_ Mickey, in running fingers through his hair and over his jaw, like he’s discovering each body part for the first time.

Mickey doesn’t move. Just lets him touch. Ian thinks he can feel the twitch of a smile in Mickey’s cheek.

“I’m okay,” Ian promises, fingertips gliding against Mickey’s scalp and then gripping his hair fiercely when Mickey’s hand closes behind his neck and tugs them together, meeting lips and teeth first.

“You better fucking be,” Mickey hisses, the words so full of feeling that they dig into Ian and settle there, something to re-examine in the light of day when his head is working better. Ian closes his eyes, rests his forehead against Mickey’s, and is prepared to fall asleep that way when Mickey says, “You taste like a fucking dead animal.”

And Ian laughs—a brittle, hardly formed, short, rusty laugh. Maybe it can’t even be called a laugh.

But the way Mickey smiles makes it seem like it’s the best damn thing he’s heard all his life. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Read & Reblog on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/95175538970/before-the-dawn)


End file.
